Four Times and One
by Adi Who is Also Mou
Summary: The five times Sherlock Holmes woke up to a morning erection.


Four Times and One

_In a court of law, I will state the truth. The awesome yet perverted Sherlollians on tumblr made me do it. Also, in the name of Sherlock's errant bouncy curl, this is not even betaed. Forgive me for any general unsightliness and shit._

* * *

_1._

He had been twelve, possibly thirteen (he does not wish to retain much of his ghastly childhood in his mind palace-so they are all squeezed in a closet sized space far away from his usual rooms in his palace.) when his body started making signals that it is a perfectly functioning male specimen and would quite like to create progeny.

He was not really amused with his body.

He had known what was happening of course; late nights spent in Father's library pulling down the forbidden books from the high bookshelf had given his mind a working knowledge of the human body. He had known to expect it- it just did not make it any less _humiliating._

He had not known what to do, and it made him more ashamed of himself. None of Father's books had actually told him how to get rid of the affliction currently affecting his penis.

Mycroft had stormed in just then (nosy, fat bastard he was, never knocking, always coming into his room in inopportune times and taking perverse pleasure in complaining to Mummy about the dead animals Sherlock kept in his bedside drawer) shouting at the top of his voice, "Sherlock, Mummy says to wake up already, we need to-what's the matter?"

Sherlock had managed to drag the duvet over his legs and torso, but unfortunately, those and his loose pajama trousers did not fully conceal his situation.

Mycroft had taken one brief, penetrating look at his little brother before bursting into guffaws that would probably have made the older Mycroft a bit ashamed of himself. But not by much.

"Oh little brother has grown up I see," Mycroft's pompous tone at that moment still set Sherlock's teeth on edge some twenty-twenty four years later, " Well then, go take a cold shower, then go see Father. I doubt I can have this talk with you without breaking a hernia."

Had Sherlock's blood supply not been conflicted between his penis and his flushed skin, had he been able to spare some pints of blood for his brain, Sherlock would have retorted with something clever and insulting.

But right then, making a mad dash for his bathroom, all the while ensuring his brother did not see him in this condition as much as he already had, was all Sherlock could do.

(Thirty five year old Sherlock realizes with a jolt that it had been the only time he had followed Mycroft's instructions. The thought makes him shiver in disgust.)

* * *

2.

He was rarely affected by the condition most human males referred to crudely as 'morning wood' in his twenties, relying on his mind to compartmentalize and effectively lock away his body's demands. It was all transport- his mind was what mattered.

Even the drugs or Mycroft's insipid rehab program could not take that away.

And then a petite pathologist with too thin lips and too big eyes smashed every inch of his mental shields.

His mental shields had taken a battering due to the amounts of cocaine he had taken, and Molly Hooper curling her lovely pink tongue around a lollipop was enough to make them fall apart.

And she had the gall to _beam_ at him. To say his name in that breathy way of hers; she had the gall to run up to him and hug him and say, "Oh thank god, you are alright, I was so worried, and DI Lestrade-,"

He had pushed her away, not because her pressing against him was making him react in ways he did not wish to react, but because it was suddenly very warm in the room.

Yes, that was why he had pushed her away. He had ignored (or _tried to)_ ignore the hurt look in her eyes as she walked away to gather his old experiments for him.

That still had not stopped him (_his body, dammit) _from waking up the next morning with Molly's name on his lips and an impressive hard-on tenting his pants.

* * *

3.

The Woman.

_The Woman._

She was a fascinating creature. Her ruby red lips, her sexual confidence- and above all her mind. She could match him wit for wit, and it had aroused him in ways he would not even admit to himself.

He had known it was a dream- the Woman slipping in through the window like she had done in reality a few days ago, his coat hugging her every curve. She had slid onto the bed and straddled him, her red lips nipping at his jaw, chin, and mouth as she dragged her sharp nails down his bare chest (another proof this is a dream-Sherlock Holmes never sleeps naked.).

She moaned his name as he thrust into her, her head thrown back as he cupped her breasts, pushing down his coat from her shoulders. He sat up and she moaned again at the sensation, completely at his mercy and the thought made his cock twitch. She gripped his forearms as he licked and sucked at her neck, making sure there is a bruise.

And that's when the dream started to change.

The Woman's tanned skin shifted to a pale one, her hair became a lighter shade of brown, and Molly Hooper's soft, breathy voice called out his name, "_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,"_ and it made him lose control- he rolled her over onto her back, no longer caring that this was a dream, and simply _fucked _her, biting her neck and groaning at her ear, "_My Molly, mine, mine, all mine,"_

He woke up in mortification, semen forming a sticky patch on his abdomen and pants.

* * *

4.

It was fascinating, how much three years and a fall from a hospital roof can change the course of life.

Sherlock watched Molly's bare breasts rise and fall to her steady breaths, her mouth slightly open and her eyelids flickering from REM sleep. He was pondering on whether to wake her up or not, seeing as his body had decided it needed more of Molly and last night's strenuous activities had done nothing to sate it.

But Molly would no doubt be tired and sore, so he attempted to sink deep into his mind palace, resigning himself to ignoring his physical condition.

"I can see someone's awake," Molly said sleepily, and Sherlock rose out of his reverie and fixed her with a stare.

"You are tired, no doubt, Molly," he started, when he noticed the mischievous smile spread across her face, "_Oh_."

"Yeah, _oh," _Molly bit her lip as she rose to straddle him, resting lightly on his groin. "Stop being so chivalrous, Mr Holmes, I assure you-," she rocked her hips slightly, and his hips jerked in response. "I feel completely fine and _pleasantly _sore."

She rocked her hips again, harder this time, he smirked at her teasing. One of his hands curled around her hip, while the other rose to play with her nipple. Her eyes flashed and she was just about to tug down his pajama bottoms when-

Her sodding _mobile _went off.

She lurched off of him at once, ignoring Sherlock's growl of protest and began to scramble for her clothes, swearing all the while.

Indeed at anytime, it would have been hilarious, but Sherlock was too keyed up to noticed. "Molly," he half shouted.

"Sorry, sorry, Sherlock, I have to go, I have an important meeting at eight, and you let me sleep in." she muttered distractedly, slapping away Sherlock's hand as he made to pull her back into bed. "I'll make it up to you, I promise-,"

She all but ran into the adjoining bathroom, and Sherlock fell back into the bed, seriously contemplating shooting another smiley face-this time on his ceiling.

* * *

_And…1._

The case had taken a toll on both of them, and John did not even bother to say goodnight as he drove off in the taxi to his own flat, leaving Sherlock standing on the steps of 221 Baker Street. Even Sherlock himself was having trouble keeping his eyes open- staying awake for four days and three nights had taken its toll and now his body screamed for sleep.

Sherlock did not resist.

He barely heard Molly's greeting as she stood up from the sofa upon his entrance, not even bothering to take his shoes or coat off when he collapsed on the bed. He was dimly aware of Molly untying his laces and knocking his shoes off, before tugging at his coat out from under him.

He whined in complaint, annoyed, but allowed her take off his suit and unbutton the top three buttons of his dark shirt. The last thing he was aware of before he drifted to sleep was Molly placing a sweet kiss at his temple.

He woke with a jolt and groaned immediately.

Molly was taking advantage of him and his morning condition in the most delightful way possible.

(He must have slept deeply, his mind mused distractedly-he had not noticed her pulling off his sleeping bottoms.) She cupped his balls gently and licked a hot stripe up his length before smirking up at him. "Morning, Sherlock."

"Don't tease if you don't intend to finish through, Molly," he managed to say, still smarting from the last time. He drew in a surprised breath when she took all of him into her mouth, letting his cock hit the back of her throat before she pulled him back out.

"Don't be bossy, or you are going to have to find your way to a cold, _cold _shower." Molly retorted, and Sherlock grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up to him, kissing her deeply and tasting himself on her. He tugged at her stupid pink pajamas.

"_Off," _he muttered against her lips, but did not give her a chance to reply as he rolled her underneath him. He grinded himself against her, one hand buried in her hair in a painfully tight grip, the other tearing open her top. (He needs to buy her better quality night wear- instead of these pink nightmares.) He left her mouth in favor of mouthing at her neck and collarbone, before moving down to take a nipple into his mouth.

His slender fingers found her center, finding her wet and warm. She pushed his hand away impatiently, pulling him on top of her, and rocked her hips against his.

He could not wait any longer. He thrust into her without preamble, and her legs locked him in place. She moaned into his ear as her nails raked a red path down his chest before climbing back up and burying themselves into his curls, pulling him in for kisses that all meshed into one.

There would be a time for slower, more sensual sex, but right now he needed to fuck the moans out of her, and he quickened his thrusts, and was rewarded by a significant increase in Molly's breathless moans.

Feeling a tightness in his balls, Sherlock reached his hand between them and her clit, letting her rub against his fingers furiously before she clenched around him, his name leaving her lips in a sweet hiss. Two more artless thrust had him tumbling over the edge of the cliff, crushing his mouth to hers, making her swallow his own moans.

Later, when they had recovered somewhat, Molly curled into him, and he tightened his arms around her. "So, did that make it up to you?" Molly said, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

"Hmmm," he replied. "I don't think I've forgiven you _quite_ yet."

And he slid down her body to her center, torturing her until his name fell from her lips in supplication.

* * *

_A/N: Bah humbug. Not really pleased with how this turned out. I haven't written such smut in a long while. Sorry if I made you cringe!_

_But really. You guys are the reason I wrote this and debauched Benedict in my head. (Not that I hadn't already, but still.)_

_Leave a review, or throw a tomato at your screen. Warning: throwing a tomato at your screen might not be good for your tomato._

_Love you all, you bunch of perverts._

_Adi xox_


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